


I Paint The Nails Of My Professor (Blind)

by rowanthestrange_yugihell



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: And Bill Knows, Blind Twelve, But In The Form Of, But One That Should Have Been, F/F, Fluff, Gen, So In A Non-Canon Period Of Time I Think, Trans Doctor, Trans Twelve, and hints of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanthestrange_yugihell/pseuds/rowanthestrange_yugihell
Summary: In which Bill practices her Nail Art skills. Which she plans to acquire any minute now.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 112





	I Paint The Nails Of My Professor (Blind)

* * *

  
"Don't put anything embarrassing on them."

"What counts as embarrassing?" Bill asks.

"I don't know. Footballers." The man he used to be lets out an offended gasp in his head.

"I could do one hand red, the other blue and we could let the Rovers and City fans split you down the middle." 

"I don't think you can afford to do that, Bill."

" _I_ can't afford it? It'd cost you an arm and a leg."

The Doctor hears the opening of a case, the clink of bottles, and the peardrop smell of nail varnish fills the air. 

He grumbles as she takes his hand. Better than the sigh he has to suppress because he's starved for physical contact even as it makes him feel like his skin is full of fire ants. 

"I set you up for that one."

"I appreciated it, thanks." She seems to change her mind and the bottles start clinking again. "What do you reckon to water-marbling? Not the proper kind, just the fake stuff, dragging with a cocktail stick, like swirly colours?"

"Are you good at it?"

"God no. Well, never tried actually. Watched a few Youtube tutorials though. One tutorial, strictly speaking, but it was a good one." Bill assures him.

“Well you wanted a guinea pig.” He says, wiggling his fingers until she holds him still and gets to work.

“I did actually. They never let us have one. Not since Darren Fowler tried to flush the hamster. It was alright, Sara Lindon stopped him, but they locked it in the office after that.”

“My friend grew a giant mouse that ate the President’s pet cat once.”

“You have cats on Gallifrey? You swear this hasn’t all been an elaborate hoax and you’re actually from Aberdeen or something?”

“Did you know Croydon isn’t anywhere near Aberdeen?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Hm.” 

Something touches the skin around his nail and he flinches.

“Are we both doing this blind or...”

“Ha. It’s latex, to stop- Oh, hang on, you’re not allergic to latex are you?”

“Imagine I’d know by now if I was.”

Bill goes quiet. Possibly alarmed by the implications. Possibly just concentrating. He wonders if she’s doing that face where she screws up one eye, wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue between her teeth. He sometimes misses decoding facial expressions, especially because he thought he’d been getting better at them. But at least no-one expects him to understand them now, so that’s a bonus.

“What colours are you using?”

“Haven’t decided yet. This is just a white base coat. Gimme your other hand.”

The Doctor resists the urge to tap his fingers, and bounces his foot instead.

“How long is this going to take?”

“I stole Lindsey’s gel polish stuff, so about a minute once they’re under the lamp. Figured you wouldn’t be able to wait.”

“Am I under the lamp now?”

“Righty is, yeah.”

The Doctor moves his wrist a little, and feels the side of the lamp. He doesn’t like how she managed to do that without him noticing. Bill and ‘sneaky’ are hardly bedfellows.

“How was your definitely-not-a-date with Sandwich Girl?”

“Still definitely not a date, and not Sandwich Girl - Rika. …And technically she would have been Croissant Girl anyway.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Nothing to tell - swapping hands, don’t move, I’ll do it - she was, well, yeah, you know.”

“Ah.”

“Straight girls shouldn’t be allowed to wear flannel, that’s basically entrapment. She had the Bi Bob and everything.”

“Bi Bob?”

“That thing where you have straight hair down to about here.” He can tell she’s gesturing.

“Down to where?”

“Shit, sorry-”

“Language.”

“Shoulder length, about _here_.” A hand suddenly touches the side of his neck, and he tries not to jump. She’s trying.

“And that’s bisexual coding is it? Useful to know.”

“Well, useful to a point. See the flannel fiasco.”

“It always changes. Like moustaches, or earrings, or skinny jeans.”

“God, I almost forgot they used to be gay. Now they’re just-”

“An abomination.”

Bill snorts. She always gets a bit softer with him when they talk like this. Maybe she just likes that feeling of not being alone. He’s rather fond of it too.

“Alright, colour time. I was thinking swooshy rainbow holo, or is that not punk enough?”

“Rainbows are punk.”

“Oh, ok, cool.” Bill says brightly, sounding pleased and clinking bottles again. 

“What’s ‘holo’?”

“Little bits of glitter that go all rainbowy when you wiggle your fingers.”

“Put it in needlessly complicated language, so I know you’re getting the whole university experience.”

“Uh, approximately quarter-millimetre square pieces of reflective material that refract colours across the range of the visible spectrum upon experiencing motion and environmental light changes.”

“Good. You’ll be signing my pay cheques in the next ten years or my name isn’t The Doctor.”

“First, you mean you actually get paid? You don’t just, like, helpfully squat here? Second, are we being technical about names? But either way, thanks.”

“Where do you think Nardole gets all that money to spend on milk and soup and whatever else it is he eats?”

“Think I saw him with some Niblets once.”

“I mean alright, they didn’t pay me when I first turned up, I just snuck in when they were having some upheaval and there was an office empty. Eventually they figured they must have lost the paperwork, apologised profusely and gave me a lump sum of backdated wages. It’s why Nardole never wears the same thing twice.”

“I’ve seen him wear the same thing loads of times.”

“Nope, he just buys in bulk if he likes it.”

“Huh. Living the dream.”

“You get sick of the new-cardigan smell after a while.”

The Doctor feels her move from finger to finger. It’s not relaxing, but…focussing. He’s not sure he likes focussing.

“Are you Nardole’s sugar daddy?” Bill asks cheekily.

She thinks he doesn’t know what that means. He’s been stuc- grounded on this planet all this time, and she thinks _that_ isn’t in his lexicon. Dream on, sister.

“Well if paying for someone’s every want and desire in return for care and companionship makes me a sugar da-”

“No, don’t say it, I’ll laugh and ruin your nail and we’ll have to do it all over again.”

The Doctor smirks. He wishes he could see her face. It would probably be weird to ask her to describe it.

“Don’t move that hand while it bakes. Your left hand’s probably going to look a bit better than your right one, just a heads-up.”

“Good thing I’m left handed.” He says, and tries to guess how many bottles Bill used as she puts them away.

“...No you’re not.”

“You just think you remember.”

“Nah, cus your tea and stapler and pens are on your right.”

Even if she’d refused the offer of space travel, he’d have still given her the scholarship.

“Alright, time to see how they look...” And Bill does something that feels rather like she’s painlessly peeling the skin off the ends of his finger.

“Remember to lie confidently.” He says flatly, and by instinct pointlessly shuts his eyes behind his shades.

“Oh!”

“Great.”

“No! No, they actually look good though!”

“The tone of surprise, naturally, showing peak confidence.”

The Doctor quirks a smiles though. He can’t help it. He’s always the vainest person in any given room. And - he thinks, as Bill wipes something over his nails and brushes around his cuticles again. - she has discovered a skill, her joy of learning infectious.

He gingerly curls the fingers on his right hand to touch the pad of his thumb. Definitely dry. That’s ultraviolet curing and double bond polymerisation for you.

“You better come and take these off when they get ratty.”

“Course.” She says, a little too quickly, and he feels certain she doesn’t actually know how to do that.

“Because I’m not wandering around looking like a drag queen on her day off.” 

Nope, too close. Abort.

“When are your days on?” Stupid smart girl.

“You couldn’t handle it.”

The Doctor suddenly stands up and strides to the door. He knows the layout of his office like the back of his hand - considerably better in fact, now she’s painted his nails.

“You know, if you ever want me to do your makeup...”

“I’ll know I’ve gone too far. Goodbye.” He says, holding the door out with fingers splayed so he doesn’t chip Bill’s handiwork, gesturing her out.

“I-”

“Essay on my desk Wednesday, label the USB stick properly or search through the box in your own time.” The Doctor says pointedly.

There’s a scrape of a chair and rattle of bottles.

“Thanks for being such a good guinea pig.” Bill says as she passes him. “Hi and bye, Nardole.” She adds and the Doctor updates his visualisations accordingly.

“Squeak, squeak.” The Doctor replies monotonously, as he continues to hold the door open for him to squeeze through, a carrier bag bumping his leg.

“Guinea pig? Oh, are you trying out Lifestyle Changes? I was a Furry once you know.”

“Shut up, Nardole.”  
  



End file.
